


Still Waters Run Deep

by Lauren (notalwaysweak)



Category: Pagan Chronicles - Catherine Jinks
Genre: Gen, Yuletide, Yuletide 2017
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-17
Updated: 2017-12-17
Packaged: 2019-02-16 00:44:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,362
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13042977
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notalwaysweak/pseuds/Lauren
Summary: Just another night on the Peregrinatio Compostellana. Isidore's still wondering why they're out here. Pagan's still wondering why horse farts are so revolting.





	Still Waters Run Deep

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Dolorosa](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dolorosa/gifts).



> Post- _Pagan's Scribe_ and more than a little hazy on the subject of _Pagan's Daughter_ ; I'm so sorry, Dolorosa, I ran out of time to both finish my canon review and write you something I thought you'd enjoy. I couldn't be nearly as clever as Catherine Jinks with historical references, but I hope I did okay!
> 
> * * *

Jog, jog, jog.

It turns out that riding a horse only gets easier in the sense that I’ve learned how to move _with_ it, instead of flopping about in the saddle like a sack of potatoes. Undersized, malnourished potatoes, to hear Pagan tell it. But the way of the pilgrim takes us away from luscious foods, it makes gluttonous fatness vanish. As well as any _cushioning_ fat from the backside. Callixtus conveniently never mentioned that in his _Codex_.

Jog, jog, jog.

Smell of hot horse. Smell of rank sweat. No smell of burning, for which I’m grateful; while my tonsure _feels_ like it’s on fire thanks to the dry summer heat, and probably _looks_ like it’s on fire thanks to the way the rest of my hair won’t lie down flat, my mind is at ease.

Which is more than I can say for my buttocks.

Jog, jog, jog.

‘It’s all right, Isidore.’ He doesn’t even need to turn around and see the look on my face to know that I’m hurting. We’ve spent too many years together for that. Enough that not all of my hair is as red as it once was, and Pagan’s is salt and pepper. ‘We’ll be stopping for the day soon. Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Port isn’t far now, and they’re very good to pilgrims; there’ll be food and water and books.’

I don’t need to see the look on _his_ face to know he’s smiling.

* * *

Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Port is small but milling with pilgrims, most of whom seem to be more interested in drinking and talking than contemplating their journey and destination. A man moves among them half-heartedly trying to sell relics: wood splinters, water vials, and pieces of bone. He’d do better trying to sell them wine.

Pagan navigates Hippo, whose gluttonous fatness has thus far not shown any sign of vanishing from his equine backside, through the crowd. Even here, three hundred miles from home, he waves and smiles at people. They’re generally too dazed from the heat and general end of day confusion to wonder why this little dark man is being so familiar, and wave back assuming they’ve seen him before in Saint-Guilhem-le-Désert or Toulouse or Bagnères-de-Bigorre.

At the end of the day we’re all covered in dust, indistinguishable from one another and the ground, sometimes exhausted enough to be ready to return to it.

Stormfoot follows Hippo. I’m still mostly sitting up, but as the sunlight fades, so does my patience with riding. Pagan keeps talking about leaving the horses behind once we cross the border, about doing this the _right_ way, on foot like all the other penitents, but the way that he sways as he slides down from the saddle once we reach the church’s stable tells me it’ll be easy to keep talking him out of it.

Especially with the mountain crossing yet to come.

Pagan hands Hippo’s reins off to the stableboy as I dismount. Stormfoot’s tail lifts and he lets out the grand tearing sound that’s caused Pagan to rechristen him Storm _fart_. The stableboy’s nose wrinkles a little, but he’s doubtless used to it.

‘Wouldn’t think digested grass could reek so much, would you?’ Pagan says cheerfully. ‘Come on, Isidore. Let’s make the most of this sunlight.’

I cock my head at him, because he’s not waving a book at me, and that’s the only thing I want light for. I can eat and sleep in the dark perfectly well.

‘The river, Isidore.’

Oh. The river, Isidore.

‘Leadeth me beside the still waters, Father,’ I reply. The stableboy looks scandalised—how _dare_ I appropriate the Psalms for a _quip_ —but says nothing in the face of, well, Pagan’s face.

Besides, if it weren’t for Pagan, I probably wouldn’t know how to joke in the first place.

* * *

 _Still_ doesn’t describe the river; it’s not exactly a rapid current, either, but brisk enough that when we sit down, get our boots off, and dangle our feet in it buffets the road-dust away with ease. It’s beautifully cool and I don’t even mind that it’s taking me away from valuable reading time. (No chance that Pagan would let me read this near to the water. No chance that _I_ would let me read this near to the water, either.) Not being a holy river, it’s also mostly pilgrim-free, a fact Pagan seems particularly grateful for.

Even with the sun sinking below the horizon, my head still hurts. I reach up to touch it.

‘ _Ow!_ ’

Pagan looks at my face, then takes hold of my shoulder, heaving himself up to stand beside me, looking down at my tonsure.

‘Your scalp’s as red as your hair, Isidore. We need to find you a hat.’ He looks back over his shoulder at the lights of the church as one by one the lanterns are lit. ‘And some aloe.’

‘Soon.’ I stay where I am, tugging my skirts higher and shifting closer to the edge of the rock. Oh, that’s lovely. Nice and cool right up to my knees. Doubtless my feet will come out with at least one leech attached, but why turn down free medical care?

‘You know what happens when your brain overheats.’ He’s only half joking, but at least he sits back down. His hand on my shoulder is shaky; his dark skin might not show the effects of the sun the way that mine does, but that doesn’t mean the heat isn’t affecting him.

‘Better that than falling into idleness; if idle hands are the devil’s workshop, an idle brain is surely worse.’

‘If you truly feel that way, you can put it to work reading to me tonight.’

As though I don’t do that every night. ‘Yes, Father. Anything in particular?’

‘The _Architrenius_.’

I can feel my eyebrows lifting. ‘How terribly light-hearted of you.’

‘Satire is important, Isidore.’

‘You do know de Hauvilla plagiarised, don’t you?’

‘I keep forgetting that’s on your optional bonus deadly sin list.’ Pagan splashes his feet in the water and then falls silent, having apparently decided that’s the final word on the subject. Because it’s _his_ word, and because it’s poking fun.

We do have another nightly ritual, though, one that happens at dusk, when he’s got the darkness to hide his expression so I don’t know if he’s exasperated or exhausted.

‘When will you tell me why we’re journeying?’ I ask.

‘Once we cross the border.’

And I know it for a lie, the one lie he always tells, because we were going to leave the horses in Saint-Guilhem-le-Désert or Toulouse or Bagnères-de-Bigorre, and he was going to tell me why we were journeying in Saint-Guilhem-le-Désert or Toulouse or Bagnères-de-Bigorre. Every day we’re keeping Hippo and Stormfoot a little longer; every night he _will_ speak to me of his purpose in this pilgrimage but not yet, not yet.

I don’t know what he has left in his past that he hasn’t already atoned for with some other part of his life, such as every bullying blow he’s taken, every glowing sermon he’s inspired someone with, every tear he’s shed over Lord Roland.

I know better than to say so, though.

So I accept his answer, splash some water on my face and arms, and then help him up from the rock after lacing his boots back on. We’ll go to the church for a meal—literal loaves and fishes, considering the river—he’ll find someone who knows where there’s aloe, I’ll read to him until he falls asleep, then _I’ll_ fall asleep, and then tomorrow we’ll begin again.

Tomorrow might be the day we leave Hippo and Stormfoot behind. Tomorrow night might be when Pagan tells me at last why we’re on this long, long road. Or it might be another day and night where he lies once more and I pretend to believe him.

Either way, I will stay with him. It’s not that I don’t trust God’s hand to lead him through the wilderness; it’s just that I’d rather my own be there as well.

‘Isidore?’ He sounds contemplative.

‘Yes, Father?’ Maybe I’ll get my answer tonight after all.

‘Why _do_ you suppose horse farts are so awful? It’s only grass.’

Maybe not.


End file.
